So after day 3, I began to get into a rhythm with regard to my eating schedule. Eight days in, and I’m actually not on the brink of being tossed into a rubber room and given a big box of crayolas and construction paper to make pretty art with. The morning caffeine craving is basically gone at this point, replaced by cold water. By the way: this sucks, because coffee usually kick-started me and put me in a higher gear for work first thing in the morning. Now, I feel more sluggish and tired in the mornings, and I catch myself yawning mid-day (maybe this could be caused by me getting a look at my reflection in the office window…the verdict is out).One thing I will say though: I’m not starving in the mornings now, even after a workout. those hunger pangs have dissipated.
Last weekend I put in some trail running, a few hours on the bike, and some strength work, and I wasn’t as ravenous as I had expected to be afterward. After these types of longer, weekend workouts, I know that I’m hungry….but I’m just too tired to eat. So I was able to stay within my fueling window during the weekend (all calories taken in on a weekday are from 10am-3pm), and minimize the calories to only the good ones (a la swordfish and vegetables…thank you Trader Joe’s). My goal is to run on more than 50% of my current diet in protein and shorten up on carbohydrates. I want to use the weekend as my days where I come of the fasting routine, but I’m afraid to alter the process as – knowing me and my lousy sense of self-discipline – I may not get back on the fasting train.
Eight days in and I haven’t raised the white flag yet. This is sooooooooo unlike me!
I can see it now: those Pearly Gates of Heaven floating on a huge white cloud like in an old Bugs Bunny cartoon from the 1980’s. There’s Saint Peter, with a glass of 30 year-old Macallan scotch in his hand, sitting on a really awesome couch that he scored on sale at Ethan Allen during their Fourth of July Sales Extravaganza. He’s got cable, of course – so he’s got the Yanks on the boobtube, and is beginning to stress about their starting pitching. Right next to him is my little Irish grandmother, sitting there with a white wine spritzer in one hand and a pair of huge binoculars in the other. The two of them are yapping away, discussing the proper way to make Hungarian goulash, when she presses the binoculars up to her face to catch a glimpse of her dear ol’ grandson. And what do her sparkling eyes observe? Me saying “no” to linguine, and “yes” to corn, peas, carrots and string beans, partnered up with tilapia. Seriously: tilapia. A damn fish that her Irish eyes never came across in her 94 years in New York City.
No pasta. Doubling up on the veggies. No bread. Where the hell are the potatoes?
SERIOUSLY. NO BREAD.
A tear begins to form in her eye.
She slowly lowers the binoculars, turns to Saint Peter, and…….whacks him right in the back of the head. Saint Peter spills his scotch, and asks “OH!!!!! Mary!!! What was dat for?” (bet you didn’t know that Saint Peter was really from Bensonhurst, Brooklyn – look it up, it’s true) Two which my grandmother simply responds “What the heck did you do to my grandson? He’s eating like one of them nutjobs I see on YouTube. Now get down there and fix that kid (I’m 48, but technically she’s 114 up there, so I’m a kid – see, like I told my buddy Al….everything’s relative).
Sorry Grandma – I’ll eat a decent meal soon. But the effort is paying off. 7 pounds said adios since I’ve begun this process. Not bad – but the biggest losses come right at the beginning. So I’m not dancing a jig yet.
